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The newfangled idea of coitus brought Sherlock a strange sense of perverted joy. Ever since he had begun conducting this experiment he had felt…different. It was unlike any drug-related high he had ever experienced before. It was like he was high all the time.
But, sadly, Sherlock’s bubble quickly burst, as his amount of boinking from John was…less than satisfactory. John was always busy with something else, let that be his blog, or working at the surgery, or wanking off in the shower for Christ’s sake.
And now, Sherlock was bored.
It was late at night, probably close to twenty-two thirty or twenty-three hundred. And that was when he got the idea of adding a new addition to the far wall of the flat where there was the crudely-drawn smiley face in drippy yellow paint. Maybe he could make a gallery.
The idea filled him with a newfound glee. This was the most excited he had been in weeks.
He began rooting through the cupboards and the drawers of his desk looking for the firearm. He smirked when he found it, holding the glock at eye-level, turning it over in his hand. He checked the clip for a read on its ammunition, and smacked the clip back into the gun, satisfied.
Sherlock cocked the weapon in a practiced fashion, and took his mark at the ornate wallpaper where he had drawn an unpolished outline. His tongue was at the corner of his mouth as he ran his index finger along the side of the gun before hooking it around the trigger. He applied the lightest amount of pressure before the weapon fired, with a small amount of kick-back which Sherlock absorbed by retracting his wrist.
He smiled with satisfaction as the blast had taken a chunk out of the wall, the sofa now littered with bits of drywall and lining paper. He brought the muzzle of the handgun up to his nose, finger alongside the outside of it and inhaled the scent of the burning gunpowder.
He let out an elated sigh, one that someone might have equated to a moan of a sexual sort.
Sherlock felt the slightest pull in his gut and a slow build of tingling began to overtake his body. He took his mark again, feeling his cock jump this time at the discharge of the weapon.
The weapon had seven bullets to start out of a magazine that could hold fifteen, and he had just fired off two. Sherlock continued to fire off the bullets, each time his aim becoming more and more sloppy as his other hand uncoupled from the base of the gun to palm his quickly-hardening dick. His eyes rolled back into his head and he moaned.
It was an odd sight, Sherlock Holmes getting himself off while firing a gun. Ok, perhaps not that odd for Sherlock.
But his fun was soon interrupted by unnoticed footfalls on the stairs.
John came bursting through the door of the flat, fingers jammed into his ears, not unlike their first encounter with this situation.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Sherlock, however, neglected to answer, firing off another shot whilst simultaneously palming his engorged prick. His head lolled back, curls disheveled, moaning. John’s eyes bowled, and he couldn’t help but feel his own twinge of arousal. The sight was…enticing.
But despite his feelings, John marched over to Sherlock grabbing ahold of his dressing gown.
“Sherlock, put the gun down!”
The detective gave him a queer look, a combination of the corner of his cupid’s bow lips turned up coupled with hooded eyelids as he ignored John’s remark and fired over his shoulder.
John jumped at the sound of the expulsion, his shoulders hiking up.
“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock! Put the gun down.”
Something inside of the doctor had snapped, and he was no longer playing. Sherlock stilled, his head tilted slightly.
Sherlock’s near colourless eyes landed on John’s oceanic ones, giving him an omnipotent look.
John stood his ground firmly, his brows knitted.
“Give me the gun.”
He extended his hand, indicating his impatience with a crook of his fingers. The expression on the detective’s face seemed to change, as his pale skin was overridden with rosy blotches.
He slowly reached the gun out towards John, but retracted it.
“Are you…ordering me, John?”
There was a deep gravel to his voice, one the doctor didn’t hear very often.
“Yes.”
John’s voice was sharp, direct. His tone quirked up the edges of the detective’s lips.
“Well, you can’t have it. I’m having fun here.”
His raised the firearm as if to discharge it when John’s voice rang out.
“Sherlock Holmes, put the gun down! And that is an order!”
Sherlock’s arm dropped, going limp at the command. John took that moment to wrench the glock away and relieve it of its magazine, which encased a single bullet. John threw the clip across the room with disgust.
“What were you thinking?! You could have killed someone!”
Sherlock’s eyes were transfixed on John, and every time the doctor spoke, the pulsing ache in the detective’s groin only intensified.
“I-I suppose this will entail some form of punishment.”
Sherlock replied coolly.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take off your housecoat.”
John started, turning to close the door.
Sherlock wordlessly obliged, the blue silk pooling about his bony feet. His head snapped up at the sound of the door bolting.
There was an animalistic look in John’s deep eyes. It made Sherlock swallow. Hard.
“Get on your knees.”
Sherlock hesitated.
“On your knees! NOW!”
John snapped, startling the other man. Sherlock slowly sank to his knees, never breaking eye contact with the doctor.
Sherlock was already painstakingly hard, but the directness of John’s voice made him that extra bit harder, taking him to a state of maddening pain.
He unconsciously licked his lips. John shucked off his coat, stripping off his shirt. He unfastened his belt and Sherlock recoiled, thinking John was going to hit him. But the belt clattered to the floor beside the detective and John was on his knees in front of Sherlock.
He hungrily pressed his lips to Sherlock’s insipid skin, his mouth hot and warm. Sherlock moaned at the contact.
“God, Sherlock…the things you do to me…”
He buried his nose in the detective’s mess of curls, taking a deep breath.
John let out an obscene moan, rocking his hips forward, the hard line of his cock pressing into Sherlock’s knee. The latter moaned.
“Look at you…all unhinged like this…it’s indecent…”
He lifted away the detective’s shirt, pressing his palms to Sherlock’s flushed skin.
“All this pale skin…it goes on for days…I want to just mark it all up…turn it black and blue with bruises…so everyone knows you’re mine…”
“Ta, John…do it…”
Sherlock’s voice was drawn out in a lustful moan.
“Do it, what?”
John growled. For a moment, Sherlock couldn’t comprehend. His mind was fogged over by the aching strain in his pajama trousers and the promises of sex. But somewhere inside that funny brain of his, it clicked.
“Yes…sir…?”
He said it almost uncertainly. And that was when John’s teeth sank into his pasty skin. Sherlock cried out, his hands clambering to find purchase upon John’s back. John had bit hard enough to leave a mark, but he had caused the detective more pleasure than pain.
John began to move his lips down the tantalizing column of Sherlock’s neck, who had tilted it as to provide John with better access, much to the doctor’s appreciation. His hot lips left a sticky, wet trail down Sherlock’s neck, across his chest, looping back up around the cup of his left shoulder.
John’s breath made the detective’s entire body tingle, numbing him like Novocain. He felt paralyzed as John pressed a hot kiss to the nape of his neck, where there was a scant accumulation of curly brunet hair.
“John…”
He moaned.
“God Sherlock…the things I want to do to you…such bad, bad things…”
“Do them…”
Sherlock moaned again. There was a sharp pain on his bicep where John had forcefully grabbed the skin.
“Sir.”
Sherlock corrected himself.
“Good boy. You learn so fast.”
That made Sherlock’s prick jump again, pressing up to tent his trousers even further.
He reached a slender hand down to try and relive the ache when John’s hand vehemently grasped his wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“I-I was just…”
Sherlock babbled, grappling for the words. His brain felt fuzzy as he stared into John’s dilated eyes. He gasped. John literally took his breath away.
“You’re so beautiful…”
He said suddenly. John recoiled, rocking back onto his heels.
“What?”
“Oh, God, John, take me, now!”
John’s eyes widened even further, his mouth agape. He had never seen Sherlock come this unglued.
Sherlock’s neck was tilted back, the folds of the skin clearly exposed, the light in the room showcasing the array of rapidly-forming bruises where John had definitely broken blood vessels.
The detective was panting, a visible sheen of sweat building on his skin. John could practically see his pule in his neck.
“What do you say?”
John teased.
“Oh, God! Sir, captain, oh captain my captain, master, what do you want from me, John?!”
The doctor’s mouth dropped open. It was like Sherlock’s brain had gone haywire, overloading with the onslaught of sex.
John couldn’t shed his trousers fast enough, working Sherlock’s trousers and pants down around his calves in one swift tug.
The doctor marveled at the other’s thin, erect cock. The veins that wound around the tip practically throbbed in a visible manner, and the tip was an intent, angry pink, the head already adorned with a pearlescent tip of translucent liquid.
John wet his upper lip, pressing Sherlock onto his back. He leaned onto his elbows between the detective’s knees, coaxing the taller man to crook his laps.
At the feeling of two of John’s fingers wiggling and scissoring inside of him, Sherlock tried to raise one of his legs, which proved to be problematic since his ankles were trussed up with his pajama slacks and his pants.
He let out a heavy breath at the feeling of the intrusion, banging his palms flat against the floor.
“Jo-john-jooooohhhhnnnnnnn!”
The sound had the doctor smirking.
“Sherl, can you do something for me? Go on and touch yourself. You’ve been so good up until this point, I think you deserve a little reward.”
Sherlock’s agile fingers slowly twisted down around his hard member, giving it a few good tugs. The detective savoured the feeling, and John took a mental snapshot of the look of complete and utter unadulterated pleasure that had spread across the detective’s structured face.
“That’s enough now.”
John said.
“I said enough!”
He roared, Sherlock’s hand instantly stilling. The flaccidness his cock had achieved through his wanking was instantly hardened by the commanding tone of the doctor’s voice.
Sherlock swallowed. John shucked off his dampened tee shirt. He leaned in close, running the ridges of his knuckles along the outer curve of Sherlock’s face.
“Oh, good boy. Thank you, love. You listen so well.”
Sherlock craned his neck to watch John disentangle himself from his trousers and pants, giving his own prick a few swift tugs for good measure. Sherlock shuddered at the sight of some precome oozing over John’s prominent knuckles.
They locked eyes, a wordless exchange of lust and understanding.
John sheathed himself in a rubber he had fished out of his wallet, crammed between £10 bills and a Chinese takeout business card.
The latex made the most auditorily pleasing sound as it crinkled and crackled. Sherlock shuddered underneath the hold of John’s thighs.
John was anchoring himself, his hands gripping firmly behind the detective’s knees before he was snapping his hips forward.
Sherlock griped and hollered, banging his hands and feet against the floor, shouting and screaming words John had no clue were part of his vocabulary.
Sherlock could really curse like a sailor when his mind was clouded over by the prospect of John’s dick buried in his arse.
John pressed Sherlock’s arms up over his head, lacing their fingers together as he pistoned his hips forwards and backwards, the sound of their heavy breaths and skin slapping together filling the stillness of the room.
Sherlock’s nails dug into the calloused flesh of John’s palms. The detective bared his teeth at his flat mate, banging his mess of curls against the floor.
“Oh, GOD!”
Sherlock’s right hand bashed down against the floor even harder. John could feel the reverberations of the action through the floorboards.
“J-john…”
Sherlock stammered. John looked up.
“Sh-shift your hips slightly. P-push yourself up with your k-knees a bit more…it will…a-ah…make the experience more pleasurable…”
John gawked at Sherlock. He hadn’t even been two months without his virginity and now he was a walking, talking lovemaking manual.
Sherlock smacked his lips, some of his cleverness returning, despite the overlaying haze of sex.
“I-if you position your hips at-a..ah! A ninety d-degree angle…god! You will…intersect the plane…g-god better. It will provide a-ngh-smoother transition.”
John cocked a brow, but pushed up onto his knees a bit more, pressing his anchoring hands down alongside the inner curves of Sherlock’s waist. The humming, orgasmic sounds Sherlock expelled at this new position led John to believe he had indeed achieved the correct angle.
As John felt the coil in the pit of his gut get awfully tight, he began to rock his hips even faster. If Sherlock had a speedometer handy, John was sure he would have been clocking his speed, to which he was later informed was that of a marathon sprint.
The doctor’s breaths came out in short, hard pants. Sherlock however, was writhing and squirming, his breath coming out in spastic gasps.
“J-john...JOHN…oh, lord!”
Sherlock kicked one of his long legs, the time-to-time tic he had in the left one turned into an all-out tremor, the muscles in his calf and thigh having a spasm.
Sherlock’s head lain back, the combination of John’s locomotor and the sweetly-painful vibration of the muscles in his legs had his orgasm building at a tremendous rate.
“J-john…I…oh God…ooh…JOHN!”
He was coming then and there, his cock twitching and sputtering, milky, sticky cum spilling out over his chest and abdomen in long spurts, coating John as well. The doctor couldn’t remember a more beautiful sight in his life. No sunset in Cabo could compare to the sight of Sherlock Holmes coming all over himself on the floor of their flat.
John only had a few good thrusts left in him before he too was falling over the edge of his orgasm, his eyes going fuzzy as a white-hot, electric heat consumed his body.
He pulled himself out of Sherlock, collapsing to the side next to him, panting. He still had the straining, filled condom on.
There was an abrupt series of banging on their front door, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s unappeased voice.
“I’m tacking this onto your rent, young man! I counted at least six shots! And making this sort of racket in the middle of the night! You’d think you were having a gangbang or something!”
She was still muttering to herself as she descended the stairs and John and Sherlock couldn’t help but burst into a fit of giggles at the realization that Mrs. Hudson had used the word gangbang. Now those were two words that didn’t belong in the same sentence together.
One high, whimsical laugh, and one deep, rumbling chuckle paired together in the sickly sweet, hot, heavy air that accompanied sex.
“John,”
Sherlock started, his voice suddenly serious. The doctor turned his neck to the side, locking their eyes together. Sherlock blinked, pushing himself up.
“Never mind.”
He stood, colt-legged, and made his way to the bathroom, closing the door.
John propped himself up onto his elbows, slightly confused by what had just happened. He saw the clip from the glock laying discarded underneath the sofa. He glanced up at the marks in the drywall and found himself laughing all over again.
Well, that had been one hell of a night.